Dagger of Am'toph
It was still early in the morning when a certain man rose from his bed, adjusted his glasses and got his morning routine started. Things were as bog-standard as they always were, his brush and toothpaste gliding over his teeth while warm water fell over him; his scalp massaged and scented by shampoo. There was nothing out of the ordinary today, save for one crucial detail - and that would be the fact that the light of the Sun was still far from stretching across the land. This man adjusted his clothes in front of a mirror and smiled, pleased by his acquisition of a rather bulky but warm jacket meant to be used in cold temperatures. To him, this was as common as putting on his socks, but to most, this was quite the unusual quirk to have as it was a hot Summer night and most had been forced to leave their comfortable beds and fans as to take a quick, cold shower and return to as comfortable sleep as they could. His breakfast was Spartan, to say the least. A glass of milk and coffee, two slices of buttered toasts and an apple he'd eat after he was beyond the threshhold of his home. As he left through the front door, he felt something on the inner side of his jacket and after a quick scan to ensure no one was looking, slowly begun to make his way up the street. The dead silence of the dark streets was occasionally interruped by a cricket or a dog's bark, but none of this mattered to the man in winter clothing - he had objects in mind, ones nothing could impede. Tossing the spent core of the apple into a trash bin, he casted a long gaze in the direction of the local park and smirked to himself in delight once he saw what he looked for. There were three robed figures, all donning purple robes decorated with golden accents and surrounding a strange rickety machine that emmited dull clicks with annoying intent. They hadn't seen their interlocutor walk up to them as the device shot out a beam of burning light up into the skies, which wasn't the only thing being shot as they soon realized. The man had just produced a revolver from his padded clothing and deftly thumbed its hammer before unloading two shots into one of the robed figures, who fell to the ground squirming and screaming in anguish. One of those that still stood quickly shifted to pull a black dagger from its holster, but was also shot down in cold blood, before having a chance to say anything. Unlike the one shot before him, the man made sure this one was dead before setting the aim the remaining robed figure's square between his gun's sights. They pleaded at him to leave them be, to be merciful and let them go, that they'd give him whatever he wanted. He just nodded his head, and with a grin, shot his last bullet at the machine, which now spluttered and screeched as it struggled to maintain that beam of light. The robed figure fell to their knees, hurling all manner of insults and innocuous curses at the assailant before attending to the failing machine. This was a mistake, as the brigand that had killed their companion right then and there lifted his foot and stomped the remaining cultist; something that deeply amused him as it caused them to plunge their face into the malfunctioning light. Fabric, skin, flesh, bone and organs of all shapes and sizes quickly fluttered up and out of the poor thing's body before congealing into an indistinct pinkish, inky mass that came crashing down on top of what remained of their skull once the machine finally gave out. The one wounded creature in robes was shouting even more now, so the brigand just went ahead and did both of them a favor by crushing its head against the pavement. Satisfied, he returned to his home and returned to his routine after setting fire to his boots and shredding the brass left inside his gun. His job as an accountant was the same it had ever been: boring, but practical in the sense that he didn't have to actually put too much effort into it. Numbers were something he was familiar enough with to the point of not making use of calculators, only scarcely putting to use a small black notebook he bought ages ago when he absolutely required some assistance. The day went by as quickly as it usually did, and as such it wasn't long before the man returned to his home once more. As he crossed the gate and garden, however, his brown eyes lit up with a smile - there was a white envelope sitting at his doorstep. His enthusiasm only grew when he saw it bore the the sigil of the Nobequium, prompting him to practically kick his door open before he walked inside and quickly fished the letter proper from its white prison. Unlike the plain paper it was contained in, however, this was a flaky bit of parchment written upon with black ink. The letters, pompous and beautiful as they were, somehow managed to convey the anger of its author. "You fool. You continue to vex our collective as a spoiled brat demands its mother to feed it, and this cannot continue. We grow tired of your intrusions, pranks and the murders of our brothers and sisters. Despite this, we have decided to give you what you thirst so much for. We left it inside your room, hidden beneath your obnoxious and vicious gaze. The key you've sought for your whole yet meaningless life, now so close to you so that you may finally cease disturbing our activities. To utilize it, you must first pass a test. Take it, and stab at your other hand. If it refuses to move, you are worthy to utilize it. If you are not, then it will drink your blood, feast upon your sicknening flesh and sharpen its edges against your unholy bones. Whichever the outcome, it concerns us not. Simply knowing you will not intrude in our activities for the seventh time this week is enough to satisfy us. Now leave us alone, you filthy animal." He grinned madly, smile going from ear to ear as he darted upstairs and swung his wardrobe open. As expected, there it was - the key and solution to all his problems. The inside of the wooden thing was no longer its own, but rather reflected that of a shrine of the local cult - and not just one of the earthly ones given the putrid smell of discarded flesh that wafted from the other end of this temporary pocket of unreality. Instead of a wooden panel, the back of the wardrobe was instead a wall of stone bricks, with a bright yellow flame that produced no heat to the right and a curtain of red to the left. And between these ornaments, was the dagger itself. He wasted no time and took it into his hand, closing the wardrobe in a single motion before he admired it in his hands. It was beautiful, eery and so very, very cold to touch as his fingertips quickly grew purple and numb...yet he did not care for now, setting it upon his night stand and sighing. "After a shot of whiskey.", he thought to himself, "After a shot of whiskey." in PMG 0.7. Category:Knife